


Gottle O' Geer

by LadyFeste



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Horror, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:51:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFeste/pseuds/LadyFeste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty wasn't the last one to speak through John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gottle O' Geer

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posting from my account on a different site. Originally written for a Halloween Prompt from Watson's Woes.

A sound on the staircase. Sherlock frowned and cocked his head.  Another sound. Not on the staircase leading into the flat, but the one leading into John’s bedroom. The bedroom where he’d retired almost an hour before, complaining of a headache that seemed as psychosomatic as the long-cured leg. Perhaps he was coming down for a painkiller despite Sherlock’s diagnosis.

“You left the paracetamol in your room days ago, John,” he called, going back to his book. Another sound, another heavy footstep. Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he glanced back to the stairs. “John?”

Another step. An alarmingly _weak_ voice. “Sherlock…”

The book was suddenly on the floor. Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and crossed the room in three strides, peering up the stairwell. John was leaning against the wall, halfway up, panting with exertion. Metaphoric red flags filled Sherlock’s vision. He took the stairs three at a time. “What’s wrong, John?”

“…I…don’t know…” John hissed through gritted teeth. His face was contorted in pain and something unidentifiable. He shone with sweat.

“Symptoms.”

“…Pain…some kind of… _pressure…_ ” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm, as the wall was suddenly unable to support him alone. Sherlock had to catch him before he slid all the way to the ground. “Thought…you said…I didn’t breathe enough…”

“I know what I said!” Sherlock snapped. “Clearly I was wrong.”

“Twice. Not…the hallucinogen. Everything’s…clear…”

Sherlock breathed a quiet sigh of relief. A mere three hours ago they’d returned from solving a case. Cultists. Hallucinogenic drugs that drove men to suicide. He’d broke into their storage facility and replaced their supply with a placebo…but John had knocked over and inhaled something on one of the shelves. Not enough to cause problems. Or so he’d thought.

John cried out, bringing him back to the present. He more or less dragged his flatmate down the stairs and deposited him on the sofa. There he checked John’s pulse with one hand and dug his phone out of his pocket with the other.

“Is the pain getting worse?” he asked, sending Lestrade a text. _Might need ambulance. SH_

“No,” John gasped. “Not…really…the pressure is…” Sherlock’s alarm increased a hundredfold when John’s hands began to shake. “Losing control…of motor functions…” 

_What do you mean you might need an ambulance? L_

_Need an ambulance. What inhaled drug would cause cranial pressure and loss of motor control? SH_

“I can hear…something…” John said as Sherlock one-handedly sent the second text. “Telly on?” 

“No, John. Are you _sure_ it wasn’t the hallucinogen?”

_You said you were CLEAN. L_

“It’s…a voice…”

“John, don’t listen to the voice.” It _was_ the hallucinogen. Had to be.  Although the victims usually saw things rather than heard them. “Focus.”

_Ambulance. SH_

John’s eyes glazed over. “No…” he muttered. “No. Get out…of my head…”

“John?”

“There’s…it’s talking to me…”

“John, don’t listen to it.”

“There’s something…in my head… Sh’lock…”

_You’re at Baker Street, yes? L_

“Sh’ck…cnn…hrrr…” Speech. He was losing language. Not a hallucinogen. He let out a low, keening wail that _hurt_ Sherlock to hear.

“Fight it, John. You’re stronger than a drug, you idiot. Stay _focused!_ ”

“ _Hello, Sherlock._ ”

Sherlock froze, mouth going paper dry. The words came out of John’s mouth. There were two voices speaking. Neither was John’s.

_No ambulance. SH_

John’s eyes snapped back into focus, except they weren’t John’s eyes anymore. John didn’t have eyes the color of dried blood. _“That is your name, am I correct? Wouldn’t do to start off on the wrong foot.”_

Sherlock backed away, his own eyes wide. His phone beeped. He let his thumb worry over the keys as fast as possible, not daring to look away from Not-John’s eyes. _Need u come now alone john in trouble sh_ He pressed send not a moment too soon.

 _“I’ll have your mobile, if you don’t mind.”_ Three voices this time. John held out his hand. Sherlock tossed the phone to him, unwilling to come closer. Not-John caught it, only to toss it in the corner of the room.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, hiding his trembling hands behind his back. 

 _“For now, only a body.”_ Four voices. A shudder passed through that body. In the eyes, Sherlock saw blue patches tumble over red. John was fighting, fighting hard. The shudder ended and John stood straight again. “ _Thank you for allowing me access to this one. It’s quite nice.”_

Five voices. Not-John stepped forward and Sherlock stepped back. Soon he had his back to the wall. He assumed a fighting stance.

The voices laughed. “ _If you attack me, your friend John will feel every blow. But I won’t. I won’t feel a thing.”_

 Sherlock’s breath hitched. “Please. Let him go.”

 _“I don’t think so.”_ Another shudder. Another blue swarm. _“Quite the fighter, is John. He won’t win.”_

“You underestimate him.”

_“So did you.”_

Not-John’s arms went over his head in an elaborate, cat-like stretch. He rolled his neck in languid, fluid motions. “ _I haven’t had a body in centuries. I’m grateful to you for leading your friend to me. I’m tempted to let you live.”_

He sank further against the wall, watching the blue light dance in Not-John’s eyes. “You’re going to kill me?”

 _“Of course._ ” Six voices. Not-John shrugged. _“No matter how clever you think you are, you’re only a pathetic little human, Sherlock Holmes.”_

“…Then what are you?”

The thing inside John Watson smiled and wrapped John’s hands around Sherlock’s throat. “ _Hungry._ ”


End file.
